


Poetry As Sweet As Sugar

by 221bdisneystreet



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Infinite Eyerolls, One Shot, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5175344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221bdisneystreet/pseuds/221bdisneystreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beatrice’s new neighbor is pretty weird. He keeps on asking her for things as simple as sugar. That’s all he wants, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetry As Sweet As Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> And tada! My first ever fanfic has finally been revealed (although I never would have thought that my first fic would be a fluffy OTP prompt). This is inspired by a Tumblr AU prompt that another friend of mine wrote for the Homestuck fandom, although this one turned out to be much longer than I expected.
> 
> edit: THIS FIC NOW HAS FANART BY THE TALENTED AND AMAZING BRIGID (@angstinspace)! THANK YOU SO MUCH <3 [Y'ALL CAN CHECK IT OUT HERE!](http://angst-in-space.tumblr.com/post/159606588107/a-birthday-gift-for-221bdisneystreet-based-on-her)

Beatrice’s eyes cracked open when the doorbell rang.

“W-what?” she mumbled drowsily, rubbing her sagging eyelids and blinking to clear her blurred vision. She glanced at her phone on the coffee table; the clock read 3:16 PM.

_Oops. Must have dozed off._

Her eyes shifted to the tattered copy of _Heart of Darkness_ on her lap. Of course she would fall asleep reading this. It was just so dense and tedious (with all that narration, it was essentially just a long ass quotation). How could her literature professor expect her to read this before Monday? Second year sure was off to a great start…

A light knocking interrupted Beatrice’s mental complaining.

“Coming!” she yelled. She tossed the book onto the table and dragged herself off the sofa and to the door. Who would be knocking at this hour? Maybe one of her roommates forgot her keys. She twisted the lock and opened the door.

A scrawny boy about an inch or two shorter than Beatrice’s 5’ 6” frame stared up at her with wide, mud-brown eyes. He must have been the walking stereotype of a hipster based on his fashion sense. The collar of his white button-up poking out of his orange cashmere sweater, the tight-fitting black jeans, the worn-out Converse sneakers. He could be featured as a model for an Urban Outfitters ad with that vintage style.

Beatrice stared down at him and raised her eyebrow. “Umm...can I help you?”

“O-oh, yeah! Uhh…” the boy stammered, nervously twiddling his fingers. Beatrice crossed her arms, her expression unamused. What was this guy’s problem? Couldn’t he just spit it out already?

“I-I’m Wirt. I live next door to you.”

“Oh yeah. You’re the new freshman, huh?” Beatrice asked nonchalantly. She remembered overhearing her roommates gossiping about the new neighbor. The cute and shy first-year and the only one on their floor. Beatrice could see the ‘shy,’ but the ‘cute’? Not a chance.

Wirt bit his lip and nodded. The brief yet awkward and unsettling silence that followed felt like years to Beatrice, who glared impatiently.

“So...did you need something? Or did you just want to be my alarm clock?” The sarcasm and grouchiness crept into her tone.

“I-I’m sorry! Did I wake you up?” Wirt stuttered, fidgeting and shuffling his feet frantically. Gee, this kid was so restless.

“Yeah,” Beatrice answered bluntly.

“Oh, s-sorry! Then, i-it’s nothing. I’ll just go…” Wirt took a step back.

“Okay then…” Beatrice nearly shut the door when Wirt shouted, “Oh, wait!”

Beatrice groaned and swung the door open again. Not bothering to hide her irritation, she grumbled, “What?”

“Umm, could I borrow some sugar, actually?” Wirt ran his fingers through his tousled brown hair, his eyes glued to his feet. Beatrice noticed the deep blush flaming in his cheeks.

“Sugar? For what?”

“Umm, for coffee. Or tea.”

“Err, okay…” That was weird. What kind of random request was that? Beatrice rushed to the kitchen and opened one of the cabinets. After eyeing the bag of sugar, she snatched it and returned to the doorway.

“Here,” she muttered, shoving the bag into Wirt’s arms. “You can keep it. I don’t really have much use for it right now.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Wirt replied. “Well, I’ll get going then.” He slowly turned around to leave.

“Okay. Bye.” Could he just go already? He got his damn sugar.

“M-maybe we’ll see each other again--”

“Yeah, sure. Bye,” Beatrice tersely cut him off before slamming the door. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips.

_Finally, that’s over with._

She trudged back to the sofa and collapsed onto its soft leather cushions. As she gazed blankly at the ceiling, she couldn’t help but wonder. What the hell was up with that guy? He sure was weird, acting all anxious and uncomfortable apparently over a bag of sugar. Why was it so hard for him to just ask? Besides, why couldn’t he just go to the store to buy some instead? Was there something else that he wanted but was too afraid to say?

Beatrice closed her eyes and shook her head.

_Stop thinking about it, Bea. Hopefully you won’t have to deal with him again anytime soon._

She directed her gaze back to the book on the table. For now, she had other things to worry about.

Like finishing that damn novel.

* * *

 

Wirt had only caught glances of the girl since he first moved in. He sometimes passed by her carrying groceries to her apartment or caught her listening to music at the bus station. He only knew three things about her before that first meeting.

One, she lived next door to him.

Two, judging by her height, she was most likely a year older than him.

And three, she was beautiful.

Actually, scratch that. She was lovely. Exquisite. Mesmerizing. Enchanting. It was difficult to pinpoint a single word that perfectly encapsulated her beauty. In spite of her casual sense of style, she was simply magnetic. Those ravishing, auburn curls and those freckles dabbled on her pale, slender face etched themselves into his brain.

_How my mind has drowned in this whirlpool called love,_

_When I first set my gaze on her,_

_Whose dazzling and irresistible beauty_

_Rivals that of a goddess._

Even after that first meeting (which he knew was a total bust), Wirt still thought she was angelic. At least in terms of looks. Her abrasive, gruff demeanor suggested otherwise, but Wirt didn’t blame her. He was admittedly acting kind of bothersome, and he did accidentally disturb her from her nap. Of course she would come off as rude and pissed off that time.

Wirt cursed himself. Stupid, stupid! He was an idiot! All he had to do was just introduce himself, hold a simple conversation, ask her out for another meeting, and leave. That’s it. But no, he screwed up. Fear reared its ugly head and strangled whatever scrap of self-confidence he had mustered the moment the girl opened her door. And all he got was a bag of sugar. Not even her name (he mentally kicked himself for forgetting to ask). Just sugar.

But today would be different.

He was going to do it.

Wirt took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He tapped his foot on the floor.

_You can do this._

Footsteps from the other side approached.

_You’re like Romeo, ready to confess to Juliet. Wait, that’s actually not the greatest example. You’re not THAT impulsive. Or dramatic._

The lock clicked.

_Okay. You got this!_

The door opened.

And that flickering ember of determination was abruptly smothered.

_Crap._

“Oh, it’s you again. What do you want this time?” the girl flatly asked. Wirt blinked and gazed at her, soaking in her appearance. The tangled tendrils of fiery hair spilling around her freckled cheeks. The oversized black Beatles T-shirt. The loose but cozy maroon sweatpants. The earphones that hung around her neck. The iPod and bag of Doritos in her hand.

Even in that lazy and disheveled Saturday afternoon look, she was still breathtaking.

“Hey, did you need anything? Or are awkward staring contests a hobby of yours?”

“Huh? Oh! Uhh…” Wirt’s foot-tapping quickened.

_What are you waiting for? Say something already._

“Can I borrow some flour?”

The girl, clearly incredulous about the offer, raised her eyebrow and popped a chip in her mouth. As she chewed, she asked, “Flour? You trying to open a mini bakery in your apartment or something?” The snark dripped from her voice.

_Dammit! Not this again. Why did you say that?!_

“Umm, not necessarily. I need some to make a cake for my brother. His birthday’s coming up in a couple weeks.”

That was a lie. Greg’s birthday was in three months. Too late to take the words back now; they had already escaped from Wirt’s mouth like birds released from their cages.

The girl swallowed her chip. “Wow. Getting a head start on this cake, huh? Hope that sugar from before helps also.” She sounded unconvinced.

“Uhh, yeah.” Wirt rubbed the back of his neck, the uneasiness boiling within him.

“Alright, let me get it for you.” The girl dashed to the kitchen. Light clattering echoed from the room. Wirt stared down at his feet, and his mind surged with a chaotic flood of self-deprecation.

_Look at what you’ve done. Shit, what are you doing? How could you slip up again?! You can’t fix this now--_

“Hey.” Wirt jerked his head back up, snapping out of his rambled self-loathing. The girl held a bag of flour out to him. “Take it.”

“Umm, thanks.” Wirt took the bag, the percussive drumming in his chest escalating and his mind swinging erratically like a defective pendulum.

“Don’t mention it,” the girl replied casually. She began to close the door.

“W-wait!” Wirt blurted out.

“What now?” she growled, peeking out with an annoyed expression.

“I-I never got your name.”

The door slowly creaked open again.

“It’s Beatrice.”

“Oh, like from _The Divine Comedy_?”

“The what?”

“You know? By Dante?”

“No. Never read it,” Beatrice wrinkled her nose.

“Really? I would have thought you would have read at least some part of it in any of your past English courses. I mean, I had to learn about in my AP Literature class in high school.” Wirt tilted his head slightly and gave a quizzical look.

Beatrice shook her head. “Nope. I didn’t take AP Literature. Never cared much for novels or any of that English crap. I already hate the literature course I have to take this quarter. Stupid GE requirements.” She stuck her tongue out in disgust and scowled.

“Hey, English isn’t that bad…” Wirt mumbled shyly.

“Probably not for someone like you,” Beatrice snickered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, look at yourself. With your hipster style and random book trivia or literary references, you basically scream ‘English major.’ Or ‘total English nerd,’ at the very least.”

Wirt examined himself. He was just wearing the usual. White collared shirt, navy wool sweater, charcoal jeans, battered Converse.

“I don’t look like a hipster,” he frowned.

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you kind of do.”

“No way! A-and _The Divine Comedy_ isn’t ‘random trivia’ or a ‘literary reference.’ It’s a classic epic poem written in the fourteenth century and one of the earliest works of vernacular literature. Lots of people know that.”

“Vernacular?” Beatrice sounded confused yet unimpressed.

“It refers to the native language of a specific population or region,” Wirt defined with ease.

“Okay then…” Her tone remained even.

“Yeah, and it’s mainly known for its religious imagery and allusions to medieval Christian theology and philosophy and spiritual themes.”

“Mmhmm…”

“So Dante travels through Hell, Purgatory, and then Heaven, but the whole story is really an allegory on the human soul’s journey through the afterlife. To be fair, though, Inferno is the most famous part of his work.”

“Uh-huh…”

“A-and after Dante leaves Purgatory, his lover Beatrice serves as his guide through Heaven after he’s separated from the poet Virgil. That’s why I thought of the poem when I heard your name.”

Wirt let out a long and exhausted sigh, and silence draped over the two of them like a blanket. After a few seconds, Beatrice bit into another chip, the crunch breaking the quiet atmosphere. A satisfied smirk spread across her face.

“You just proved my point.”

“What?”

“That unnecessary tirade you unleashed at me? Yeah, that confirms it. Nerdy English major. And the obscure vocabulary made it better, so thanks for that,” Beatrice teased. She nibbled on the rest of her chip, a hint of slyness glinting like a lamplight in her emerald irises. Wirt turned his head away, the heat elevating in his flustered cheeks.

“It’s basic knowledge.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Sparknotes,” Beatrice grinned smugly.

“Besides, I’m not even majoring in English.”

“Well, then what are you majoring in?” Wirt shifted his gaze back to Beatrice. Her eyes softened and glowed with authentic curiosity this time.

“Umm, I’m a music major, actually.”

“Oh, you play?”

“Just the clarinet. I’ve played mostly in my spare time before, but my friends convinced me to join marching band the last two years of high school. Took me a long time to overcome the stage fright, but I’ve gotten used to performing in public now.” If only he could be more confident right now like he was onstage.

“So are you in any of the music groups here?”

“I’m in the symphony orchestra. We’re already preparing for our first concert in November.”

“Wow…” Beatrice’s mouth gaped open with genuine amazement. “Y’know, it’s probably best that you didn’t major in English.”

“Why?”

“Well, you aren’t deliberately pretentious or self-indulgent like some other English majors I’ve met in the past. Or that eloquent,” Beatrice giggled.

Wirt frowned again. “Gee, thanks for that.”

Beatrice’s lips curled up into a mischievous smile.

“Well, I should head back then.” Wirt turned away. “Sorry to bother you again.”

“Ehh, it’s no big deal. Your nerdy lesson managed to temporarily entertain me away from my boring-as-hell assignment.”

“What is it?” Wirt looked back at Beatrice.

“A short essay on the symbolism in _Heart of Darkness_. I swear, my professor must be the fucking Devil or something for making me read that shit,” Beatrice sighed disdainfully.

“Oh. Well, if it makes you feel any better,” Wirt replied, “I’m not the biggest fan of that book either.”

“At least we can agree on something, then.” Beatrice’s laugh was light and airy like a gentle spring breeze. The soothing sound ignited the heat in Wirt’s cheeks.

“Y-yeah.”

“Okay. Bye, Wirt.” Beatrice smiled again before shutting the door.

“B-bye, Beatrice…” Wirt murmured. He stood frozen like a startled deer in the headlights, his eyes still fixed on the doorway.

_Well, at least that was more pleasant than last time. And she said my name, too. Huh…_

He looked down at the bag of flour in his hands. Damn, he still failed to ask her out, though. Now what was he going to do with this flour?

Wirt groaned as he arrived at his door and unlocked it. Well, at least he finally knew her name.

Beatrice.

* * *

 

Beatrice hummed to the mellow tones of Sara Bareilles playing from her laptop as she scribbled French terms in her notebook and munched on pretzels and popcorn. With her eyes scanning the smudged words and her aching right hand clutching onto her pencil, she stuffed her left hand into the bowl. The sudden ring of the doorbell caused her eyes to divert immediately from her notebook to the doorway. She ate another pretzel.

“Who is it?” she shouted between bites as she sauntered to the door. Despite the question, she was certain of the identity of the visitor.

“I-it’s me.” The familiar voice squeaked back. After swallowing her snack, Beatrice unlocked and opened the door. Yeah, she knew it.

“Hey again,” Wirt grinned timidly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. Beatrice’s mouth formed a tiny smile as she stared down at him. He was wearing the typical white button-up with his sleeves rolled up and black jeans but no sweater. This time, he had a pair of thin suspenders and a scarlet bow tie to complement the shirt. His knit maroon beanie and thick-rimmed, black glasses topped off the outfit. He REALLY was a poster boy for hipsters.

“Dude, how much more hipster can you get? Like are you even trying, or are you just being ironic now?” Beatrice snickered.

“What? I just felt like changing things up a bit now. It’s not hipster.”

“Denying it isn’t gonna help. Seriously, you’ve got it all. The suspenders, those glasses. Everything. You can’t get any more hipster than that.”

“They’re not hipster!”

“You can keep insisting all you want, but it’s not gonna change a thing.”

“I’m serious!” Wirt’s cheeks flushed red, and Beatrice smiled wider. He was kind of adorable looking so embarrassed and defensive like a whining toddler...

_Beatrice, snap out of it. What are you thinking?_

“Anyways, what did you need this time, Mr. Hipster Cliffnotes?”

“Uhh…”

_Here we go again._

This was only the third time Wirt had visited Beatrice, but she could already tell there was a not-so-subtle pattern going on whenever he saw her. The evident nervousness in his tone and body language, the frequent pausing and stuttering, the shaky eye contact, the vivid blush in his face as he spoke to her and asked to borrow something...

And yet, Beatrice didn’t mind anymore. In fact, she had managed to look past all that awkwardness after their last meeting. As meek and 98% inarticulate as Wirt was, he still seemed to be a genuinely sweet and intelligent guy with some unusual quirks. And admittedly, she finally could see that he was...pretty cute.

_Beatrice, shut up. God, listen to yourself._

“I need to borrow some baking soda.”

“Let me guess, for your brother’s birthday cake?” Beatrice asked coolly.

“Mmm…” Wirt nodded, fiddling with one of his suspenders.

“I’ll go check if I have some.”

Beatrice went to the kitchen and opened up the cabinet under the sink. Two boxes of baking soda, one of them unopened, caught her eye. Beatrice took a moment to inhale the fresh scent permeating from the other, opened box. At least the strange odor emanating from the rusted pipes was eradicated. She grabbed the new box and headed for the door.

“Here you go.” Beatrice handed the box to Wirt. “Don’t worry, I have another box, so I’m not empty-handed.”

“T-thanks a lot.” Wirt paused and bit his lip before speaking up again. “Hey, be honest with me, I’m not bothering you, am I?”

“Well, I’ll admit, I was kind of annoyed at first.” Beatrice twirled a loose curl around her finger before unraveling the strand. “But it’s okay. I’ve gotten over it. Besides, even then, I never really had much use for those ingredients that you asked for earlier.”

“O-okay. Well, I appreciate that. Umm, I should actually get back now. I need to work on my music theory assignment and practice some more.” Wirt was about to turn away before Beatrice stopped him.

“Oh, by the way, your clarinet-playing…”

Wirt turned back to her. “What is it? I-I’m not being too loud, am I?”

Sometimes, whenever Beatrice was studying in her living room or cooking in the kitchen, she would overhear the faint, fragmented sounds of a clarinet echoing from the walls. If she hadn’t known Wirt better, she would have gotten slightly bothered and turned up the volume in her earphones to block out the noise.

But this was different. She knew him a little more.

“N-no! It’s not that! I-I just wanted to say that you…”

A delicate warmth sparked in her cheeks.

_Ok, wait. What the hell is with your face? Why’s it getting hot?_

“...you actually sound really good.”

The warmth suddenly shot up like a thermometer in boiling water.

_Why the fuck is your face burning so much?_

“Oh, thanks,” Wirt murmured. Beatrice spotted the shades of red intensifying in his cheeks from that compliment. “W-well, I’ll see you later, Beatrice.”

“Y-yeah. Bye.”

The door shut with a soft click. Beatrice whirled around and leaned against the cool wooden surface.

_You are NOT blushing…_

Her nails lightly clawed against the door.

_You do NOT like him. NOT in that way, at least..._

She tightly clenched her quivering, clammy hands.

_He’s just a nice guy who’s your neighbor. And your, umm, friend, I guess? Well, actually, more like acquaintance. But that’s it. Nothing more, nothing less._

Her heartbeat accelerated.

_With his goddamn encyclopedic knowledge and nerdy fondness for literature and his convoluted vocabulary and his musical abilities…_

She slid down to the floor.

_And his politeness…_

Her fists gradually opened up.

_And his...cuteness…_

Beatrice buried her face in her sweaty palms. That feeling she wrestled with and struggled so hard to deny exploded like a ticking timebomb.

_Fuck._

* * *

 

Beatrice dragged her feet towards the door, her legs wobbling with mild fatigue from having to stand in that cramped, stuffy bus for twenty minutes. She was so relieved that it was another weekend. Halloween weekend, no less. Her roommates left early in the morning to visit a mutual friend in another university and go partying, so she had the whole apartment to herself until Sunday evening. Perfect time for her to just relax on the sofa, marathon any horror films she could find on Netflix, and gorge on store-bought Halloween sugar cookies and sparkling apple cider.

When she reached the door, she stuck her hand into her sweatshirt pocket.

Empty.

Her eyes darted downwards as her fingers frantically scratched at the cloth.

_Oh no. Nononononononononononononononononononono…_

She immediately grasped onto the doorknob, and futile rattling scraped in her eardrums as her hand trembled. The knob refused to budge.

_Shit. Of all the times this had to happen…_

Her forehead banged against the door with a defeated thud. How and where the hell did the keys fall out? Did it happen when she accidentally bumped into another classmate after leaving the lecture hall? Or on the rough bus ride? Or when she nearly tripped on the stairs leading up to her apartment floor?

Well, she knew one thing for sure. She was locked out for probably the whole weekend.

“Fuck me,” she hissed under her breath. Here she was on a Friday afternoon, stranded outside her own apartment. Now what? She would have been willing to go to the housing office to ask for another key if it didn’t cost $75 or something to borrow a new one (Beatrice refused to pay that much money for anything other than necessities; college wasn’t cheap, dammit). Not only that, she had no one to ask if maybe, unless her roommates came back tonight for some reason or someone else miraculously found her keys, she could sleep over. No one except...

She slightly twisted her head to the right. To the door next to her.

To HIS door.

She quietly groaned to herself. She didn’t hate Wirt or his company, of course, but still, she knew it would be awkward to just go to his apartment and then possibly ask if she could crash at his place for the weekend. Especially considering her feelings for him were--

_Dammit, Beatrice. Just suck it up. What other choice do you have? Besides, at least he’s not a stranger to you._

She approached his door and stared at the doorbell. An inaudible huff departed from her lips.

_Here it goes._

She pressed the doorbell, and a distant ring resounded on the other side. Tiny footsteps scurried to the entrance, and the door opened. Confused, Beatrice shifted her eyes down.

A young boy, probably eight years old, gazed back at her. He had the same earth-colored eyes and ruffled hair that Wirt had, but this boy’s face was rounder and beaming with childlike innocence and vivacity. His mouth curved up into a wide smile.

“Hi!” he exclaimed gleefully.

“Uhh, hi,” Beatrice greeted back in a puzzled tone.

“Are you Beatrice?”

“Yeah, I am. Wait,” Beatrice narrowed her eyes suspiciously, “how do you know my name?”

“Whoa! So you really are her!” The boy ignored her question, but his excited eyes brightened up like fireflies at dusk in the summer. “Wow, you’re so pretty! You look like a princess!”

“O-oh. Well, thank you.” She glanced down at her outfit. All she wore was her sky-blue sweatshirt, denim jeans, and leather boots. Her hair was tied back in a neat bun, save for the few stray locks that dangled and stroked her right cheek. Really, she didn’t look THAT pretty. At least, not like a princess.

“Hold up, you didn’t answer my question,” Beatrice frowned. “How do you know me?”

“Wirt told me about you! Whenever he calls me, he just goes on and on about you all the time! He told me your name and how beautiful you were. Boy, he was right!”

“Wirt?” _What the hell am I hearing here?_ “He talks about me?”

“Yep!”

“And he thinks I’m beautiful?”

She silently wished she wasn’t blushing, but the rising heat in her cheeks betrayed her thoughts.

“Yeah! He really really really likes you a lot!” the boy piped up.

_He...likes me?_

“I-I see.” Beatrice stuck her hands into the large pocket of her sweatshirt, her fingers nervously intertwining with one another as she tried to process what she just heard in that single minute.

_Does that mean all this time then...those visits were because he..._

She pushed the thought in the back of her mind. “Actually, is he here right now?”

“He said he had to go to the laundry room, but he’ll be back soon,” the boy answered. “Are you two gonna go out?”

“What?! Oh no, we aren’t going out or anything! And I don’t really plan to anytime…” Beatrice’s voice trailed off, the hesitation consuming her after that last statement.

“Aww man,” the boy pouted.

“Anyways, I wanted to ask him if I could stay at his place for a little bit. I have some, uhh, issues with getting into my apartment right now. Can I…” Beatrice bit her lip uneasily, “Can I come in?”

“Sure! I bet Wirt would be really happy to see you when he gets home! Come on in!” The boy eagerly gestured for her to enter.

“Thanks,” Beatrice replied with a grateful smile. She stepped into the living room and scanned the area, noting that this one looked much tidier and more appealing than her own. The leather couches were a pleasant dark brown like English breakfast tea (in contrast to her dingy cream-colored couch). The mahogany coffee table was pristine with only an organized stack of library books on its surface; Beatrice’s table, on the other hand, was a haphazard mess of her roommates’ fashion magazines and unwanted supermarket ads. She recognized _Jurassic Park_ paused on the television screen.

“By the way, my name’s Greg!” The boy’s energetic voice from behind startled Beatrice, and she rapidly spun around to face him.

“Oh, you’re Wirt’s brother, right? He’s mentioned you before.”

“Uh-huh!” Greg nodded.

“How come you’re here? Is Wirt babysitting you or something?”

“No. My parents decided to let me stay with him for the weekend so that we can celebrate Halloween together. He’s gonna take me trick-or-treating in the neighborhood near his school! I’m gonna be an elephant this year!”

“Really? That’s cool.” Beatrice paused briefly. “Sounds like you really look up to your brother.”

“Oh yeah! Wirt’s the bestest brother I could ever ask for! He can be a bit of a frowny-face at times, but he’s still really nice. I’m glad that you’ve already met him,” Greg smiled.

“I-I’m happy, too.” The sentence was almost a whisper.

“You know, he should ask you out sometime soon. I don’t know what he’s scared about, but you seem really nice and pretty. I think Wirt would be the perfect boyfriend for you!” Greg’s face lit up again with giddiness.

“B-boyfriend?! Uhh, no way! Just...umm...look, I don’t think...” The jumbled words spilled out of Beatrice’s mouth like a colorful swirl of ribbons.

“You should wait for Wirt in the dining room. He’ll be back real soon,” Greg responded as he climbed back onto the couch, seemingly oblivious to her embarrassment.

“Okay, yeah…” Beatrice headed for the kitchen and dining room. Behind her, the sounds of suspenseful orchestral themes and dinosaur roars bounced against the walls. She spotted the cheap, square dining table, and after dropping her backpack onto the floor, she sat down in one of the three folding chairs and burrowed her face in her sleeves.

Wirt talked about her. He thought she was beautiful. He _liked_ her.

She couldn’t believe it. What she had heard in those few minutes outside was completely unexpected. To be fair, she knew for a while that there was something strange about Wirt’s visits and his awkwardness every time he met her. She quickly understood that he wasn’t really baking a cake for his brother. That all of this “borrowing” was some flimsy lie and that there was a different motive behind these meetings. He was hiding something from her (his constant nervousness and anxiety certainly didn’t help in his favor), yet she never really figured out what that “something” was and if it could explain his weird attitude towards her.

But now she knew. The truth crashed down on her like a crumbling brick wall.

_Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit..._

Beatrice lifted her head. She needed a distraction right now. On the table was another small tower of books.

_Jesus, how many books does this nerd have?_

Beatrice grabbed and examined the book on top of the pile. Inscribed in large gold letters, the title on the dark red cover read _Leaves of Grass_ , with the text underneath reading “Walt Whitman.” That name struck a chord in her mind; she remembered learning about this Walt Whitman in English class during her junior year in high school.

_Wirt reads poetry? Wow...he’s even more of an English nerd than I thought. Heh._

She flipped through the pages and stopped on a random poem. The title read “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” Beatrice raised her eyebrow at that mouthful of words.

_Geez, that’s a bit of a stretch for a title. It’s like this guy just gave up trying to come up with something more profound or creative._

She leaned back in the chair and skimmed the stanzas ( _Sixteen stanzas? How can some people have the patience to read this?_ ). What fascinated her wasn’t the rhythmic repetition and word choice or the solemn metaphors of death or the recurring images of lilacs and the “fallen western star.” No, what captivated her were the numerous annotations sprinkled throughout the poem and scribbled in neat handwriting. HIS handwriting, she presumed. Beatrice scanned the lines of the first stanza once more, this time focusing on the scramble of symbols or notes written in the margins.

 

 _When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,_ (Circled: lilacs; written: _symbol of love and rebirth or regeneration → possibly mourning?_ )

 _And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,_ (written: _western star is Venus → actually represents Lincoln_ )

_I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring._

_Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,_

_Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,_ (Underlined: drooping star in the west; written: represents Lincoln’s assassination)

 _And thought of him I love._ (written: _Whitman deeply mourns Lincoln’s death → how does he mourn and cope? → later on questions how we should honor the dead and reconcile ourselves with death_ )

“Beatrice?”

“ACK!”

Beatrice tipped the chair too far and squeezed her eyes shut as she toppled backwards. Before she hit the ground, two hands from behind quickly gripped onto the metal frame and broke her fall. Her feet hovering from the ground and her body still secure in the chair, Beatrice slowly opened her eyes and craned her head up. Her heart pounded as she focused on the face that stared back at her own in awe.

“Wirt?!”

“Whoa! Just like a prince rescuing a princess from danger! You’re a hero, Wirt!” Greg’s voice rang in Beatrice’s ears. Wirt rapidly turned his head towards his brother.

“Greg! G-go back to the living room! Please!” As he whined, Beatrice noticed the splash of sanguine in his face.

“Alright, whatever you say, big brother o’ mine!” The cacophonous audio from the television reverberated as the film resumed. Wirt looked back down at Beatrice.

“Are you okay?” he softly asked, the concern reflecting in his eyes. His face was just an inch away from hers, their noses close to touching and their lips almost locked in a kiss--

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” she mumbled as she hastily but carefully jolted out of the chair and planted her feet on the ground. She wheeled around to face Wirt. He was dressed in gray jeans and a red hoodie with a smoking pipe emblazoned on the front; under the pipe was the caption _Ceci n’est pas une pipe_ imprinted in cursive. He wore the same beanie and Buddy Holly glasses from their last meeting. Still his usual hipster self.

“Thanks for saving me back there. I could have had a concussion or something.”

“Y-you’re welcome.” Wirt pushed the chair back to its upright position. “Sorry for accidentally scaring you. I was just...surprised to see you here.”

“It’s fine.”

“You could have gotten hurt--”

“But I’m not. Look, that doesn’t matter right now. When did you get home? I didn’t hear you come back.”

“Just a minute ago. Greg told me that you were here after I got back.”

“Oh.” Beatrice must have been so invested in the poem (or more like the handwritten notes scattered throughout the poem) that she didn’t hear Wirt open the door.

_What a way to embarrass yourself and fuck up even more, Beatrice._

“What are you doing here?”

“Uhh, I lost my keys, and my roommates are gone for the weekend. So, basically I’m locked out and temporarily homeless.”

“Your keys?”

Beatrice nodded.

“You mean these ones?” Wirt dug into his pocket and held out his hand. Resting in his palm were two dull brass keys attached to a key ring. Beatrice’s eyes widened when she recognized the minuscule 1920s Mickey Mouse keychain and the plastic tag with her name scribbled on it hanging on the ring.

“H-how did you find--”

“I found them near the stairs when I was heading back from the laundry room,” Wirt answered. Beatrice took the keys, her heart racing as her fingers brushed against his skin. Her body tingled as if an electric shock pulsed through her veins. Then, in an act of joyous gratitude and relief, she impulsively pulled Wirt into a tight hug.

“Thanks again! God, you saved my ass TWICE today!”

“N-no problem…”

The living room still thundered with dramatic instrumentals.

“Umm, Beatrice?”

“Huh?” Beatrice’s wandering mind returned back to reality. Her arms were still wrapped around Wirt, and her face blazed crimson at the realization. She released him from her embrace and muttered, “S-sorry about that.”

She dropped the keys into her sweatshirt pocket and stared down at her boots.

_How much more can you humiliate yourself in one day?_

“Hey, are you reading one of my books?”

“Hmm?” Beatrice turned her head to the open book on the table. “Oh, umm, yeah. I was...kind of bored and wanted to get a closer look at your English nerdiness.”

She wasn’t entirely lying.

“Ouch, thanks for that,” Wirt grimaced.

“You read poetry though?”

“Err, yeah. It’s a hobby of mine.”

“You read poetry for _fun_?” Beatrice crinkled her forehead.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s RIGHT with that? Gee, you’re an even bigger nerd than I would have imagined,” Beatrice snorted, unable to stifle her laughter. Even though deep down, she loved (no, LIKED, obviously) reading Wirt’s commentary on the poem and gazing at his penmanship.

_Just keep it cool, Bea._

“Some people like poetry,” Wirt frowned, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, but nobody likes those people,” Beatrice teased.

“Including you?”

Beatrice’s face dropped into a serious expression. “What do you mean?”

“Do you…” Wirt glanced down at his feet and bit his lip hesitantly, “Do you like me?”

The question pierced Beatrice’s heart like a bullet shot from behind. She stood paralyzed, her mouth gaping open in shock.

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

“Y-yeah, I do,” she stammered.

“That’s good,” Wirt murmured. “I mean, since we’re neighbors and all…”

“Uhh, yeah.” The blush in Beatrice’s cheeks burned as she diverted her gaze to the floor.

“...it’s nice that we can be on each other’s good side.”

Wirt was stalling; Beatrice could sense the intimidation in his speech and tone. Couldn’t he just say outright that he liked her? Sure, she already knew, but she still wanted to hear him confess his feelings just so that she didn’t have to admit first that SHE liked him. It would be less awkward and more comfortable for her to say that she liked him back if HE said that he liked her first.

_Just spare me the embarrassment. I’m begging you…_

“Hey, Wirt! I’m hungry.”

Beatrice snapped her head up at the sound of Greg’s voice emanating from the living room. The television was silent.

“What do you want to eat then?” Wirt asked.

“I don’t know! Something sweet! Like an early dessert! Can you bake something?”

_Bake?_

“You haven’t even eaten dinner yet.”

“Awww, please? As an early Halloween treat??”

“...alright, fine. But you better not eat too much before dinner. I’m not going to let you spoil your appetite,” Wirt sighed.

“YAY!”

Beatrice rolled her eyes and scoffed, “Pushover.”

“Hey, come on,” Wirt pouted. Beatrice stuck her tongue out playfully.

“Well, might as well get the ingredients out…”

“You mean like the ones you’ve been borrowing from me?” She wouldn’t reveal that she knew the truth. Not yet, at least.

“Err, umm...yeah…” Wirt stuttered. “I mean, I can always get some more later for the birthday cake if I’m running low.”

“Suuurrreeee,” Beatrice teasingly dragged out the syllables. This nerd really needed to work on his lying.

“A-anyways,” Wirt paused for a moment to think, “maybe I can make some cookies. If I have any extras, I can least let Greg have more throughout the weekend or have him take some back home. Uhh, did you maybe...”

Beatrice pressed her lips into a thin line, waiting for him to finish.

“Did you maybe want to help out? I mean, if you’re not busy or anything--”

“Sure.”

Wirt’s eyes widened at Beatrice’s short and sudden reply. In turn, she sheepishly twisted a strand of hair around her finger and cracked a slight smile.

“I’d love to,” she murmured.

* * *

 

“Where did you say the eggs were again?” Beatrice peered into the refrigerator as she searched.

“On the bottom shelf,” Wirt replied. Beatrice spotted the egg carton and grabbed it. “Hey, Beatrice, I’m not taking up any of your time, am I?”

“Don’t worry about it.” She shut the fridge door and set the carton next to the mixing bowl and other ingredients on the counter.

“You sure? I mean--”

“I’ve got nothing else to do, Wirt. Ok, I could be watching Netflix and eating junk food, but I can just do that tomorrow. It’s fine. Besides, consider this as gratitude for finding my keys.” Beatrice removed her sweatshirt and smoothed out the fabric of her black-and-white Queen T-shirt before tying the sweatshirt around her waist. She was definitely ready for some baking.

“...Alright. Thanks for helping me out.”

“No problem.”

_Right, you’re doing this ‘cause you want to pay him back for retrieving your keys. That’s it. Not because you want to spend more time with him or anything…_

“Just gotta get the last ingredient. Let’s see...here we go!” Wirt grabbed a bag from the top cabinet and placed it on the counter.

It was flour. Formerly _Beatrice’s_ flour. Her fingers twitched nervously at the sight of it.

“Ok then.” Wirt rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s do this! First thing is…”

* * *

 

“You like Queen?” Wirt glanced down at Beatrice’s shirt.

“Yeah,” she answered as she dumped the last cup of flour into the bowl. “Well, to be honest, the only Queen song that I’m a huge fan of is ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ They aren’t bad per se and I don’t hate their music, but I’d rather listen to other stuff. I just thought this T-shirt looked cool and figured I’d buy it.”

“You feel the same about the Beatles?”

“That’s different. I’ve been a huge fan of the Beatles since I was in, like, middle school. Must have gotten that from my parents; they loved them so much that they still have vinyl records of their original albums.”

“Wow. Do they still listen to those records?”

“Not as much anymore. Their record player’s been gathering dust for at least twenty or thirty years. Hell, it’s probably been broken for God knows how long. It’s so fucking ancient that I’d honestly be surprised if the needle still worked properly. Come on, this is the 21st century. We’re in the digital age with iPods and streaming online and what not. No one really listens to vinyls that often.”

“Vinyls can be cool…” Wirt mumbled.

“Of course you’d say that, hipster,” Beatrice joked, lightly elbowing him in the arm.

“Hey, really?” Wirt pouted as he rubbed his arm.

Beatrice simply giggled. “Okay, now pass me that cup of milk before you start whining.”

* * *

 

“I don’t understand your sweatshirt,” Beatrice grumbled, wrinkling her nose in confusion and frustration.

“What’s wrong with it?” Wirt cracked the last egg into the mix.

“I mean, the text translates to ‘This is not a pipe,’ but I don’t get it. Is there some deep interpretation to these words that I’m missing here? I mean, it’s a damn pipe. That’s all I see. Simple. I’m not blind.”

“Actually, you’re not seeing a pipe.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“What I mean is, you’re actually seeing an image of a pipe. Not an actual pipe but rather a visual representation of a pipe.”

“...that’s just weird.”

“It’s _The Treachery of Images_ by Magritte. He’s a Belgian surrealist artist. This is one of his most iconic paintings. You never learned about him?”

“No. Do I look like the art history type?” Beatrice’s question seeped with pure sarcasm.

“Umm…” Wirt hesitated.

“That was rhetorical.”

“R-right. Uhh, do you speak French? You were able to translate the caption pretty easily.”

“I’ve been taking French since high school, so I’m pretty fluent. Don’t know if I want to major in it, but if I can’t find anything else interesting, I’ll just decide to do it.”

“Oh. That’s cool.”

“Hey, where’s the nearest outlet? I gotta plug the electric mixer in.”

* * *

 

“So what were you reading before I came back?” Wirt asked.

“Huh?” Beatrice scooped a tennis ball-sized handful of dough onto the baking sheet. “Oh. Uhh, Walt Whitman.”

“Really? He’s one of my favorites, actually.” A pause followed as Beatrice placed another scoop onto the foil. Wirt sighed wistfully.

_All over bouquets of roses,_

_O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,_

_But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,_

_Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,_

_With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,_

_For you and the coffins all of you O death._

Beatrice slowly turned her head and stared at Wirt in astonishment. Her jaw dropped open.

“You...recite poetry, too?”

“Y-yeah,” Wirt laughed nervously, scratching his head.

“God, I take back what I said about you not being that eloquent. Or self-indulgent.”

“I’m not sure if I should be completely offended by that statement.”

“Don’t bother. Is that from ‘When Lilacs Last In the Dooryard Bloom’d?’”

“How did you know?”

“I...was reading that poem before you got home. To be honest, I kind of guessed from the mention of lilacs because I didn’t bother memorizing that thing.”

“It’s a favorite of mine.”

“How can you like it? Sounds so depressing and crap like that.”

“It’s an elegy to Abraham Lincoln after he was assassinated. Of course it’s going to have melancholic undertones.”

“Don’t try forcing another speech on me right now. Just grab that spoon and help me out with the scooping.”

“Fine.”

* * *

 

“How long do these need to bake?" Beatrice placed the second tray onto the oven rack and shut the heavy metal door.

“Umm, an hour and a half,” Wirt answered, glancing at his phone. “It’s 4:21 right now.”

“Got it.”

The timer beeped as Beatrice quickly pressed the buttons. The oven read “1:30.”

“Ugh, can’t believe that we have to wait for so long,” Beatrice groaned as she flopped onto her chair. The book, open and patiently waiting to be read more, still rested on the table. Her stomach gave a hushed, low growl.

“Are...you hungry?”

“Err…” Her face burned with slight embarrassment. “Maybe…I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“I don’t have a lot of snacks right now, so--”

“I can just drink something for now. It’s cool.” She unzipped her backpack to take out her water bottle. Wirt sat down in the chair next to her and leaned back. As she took a long sip, Beatrice listened to the rhythmic tapping of Wirt’s fingers on the table, the noise coinciding with her own heartbeat. She set the bottle down and diverted her eyes to the book. That damn Walt Whitman poetry collection.

“So, umm…” Beatrice cleared her throat and gestured to the pages. “What’s this guy’s deal?”

“Huh?”

“You said he wrote this poem for Abraham Lincoln after his assassination? Is that really it?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to lecture you on this.” Wirt raised his eyebrow in confusion.

“That was when we were busy actually doing something. We’re not doing anything now. I’ve got time, and I’ve got questions,” Beatrice retorted. She needed to save herself from boredom. That’s all. Not so that she could also listen to Wirt talk like the poetry nerd he was. Listen to his voice...

“Uhh, okay.” Wirt slid his chair slightly closer to Beatrice’s and moved the book more towards him. The thumping in her chest hastened like a speeding car.

_Calm down, Beatrice. Fuck…_

“So the ‘western star’ and ‘lilacs’ that Whitman repeatedly refers to are part of a symbolic ‘trinity’...”

* * *

 

Beatrice’s chin rested on her folded arms as she stared blankly at the pages and listened aimlessly to Wirt talking about how the fifteenth stanza referred to the senseless and bloody violence of the Civil War and how the “thrush” was a possible representation of Whitman withdrawing from society and expressing his grief from afar and blah blah blah.

She really didn’t pay attention to the actual words. Honestly, all that word fluff went over her head and didn’t really matter to her. Poetic analysis was clearly not her thing, and she just didn’t understand the point. Who cared about the lilacs? Was any of this relevant in her daily life? She wouldn’t have to apply the symbolism of lilacs while she was washing dishes or cooking or studying French.

All that she paid attention to was Wirt’s voice. How it sounded strangely composed and smooth as he droned on about stuff like Venus as the “star in the west.” How it occasionally wavered with nervousness and embarrassment when he apologized for accidentally stuttering and rambling for a bit too long. How it was just so calming like a lullaby…

Beatrice’s eyelids drooped until darkness was all that clouded her vision, and the voice faded.

* * *

 

“Hey, Beatrice?” Someone delicately shook her shoulder.

“Huh, what?” she muttered, jerking her head up and fluttering her eyes open. She looked up at Wirt standing next to her and yawned, “Ugh, did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah. You kind of dozed off in the middle of our poetry session.” Wirt gave a nervous chuckle.

“Sorry,” Beatrice mumbled.

“It’s okay. I figured you would get bored pretty fast.”

“Haha,” Beatrice let out a dry, sarcastic laugh. “What time is it?”

“Almost 6:00.”

_Shit. How long was I sleeping?_

“Nearly 6:00? How come you didn’t wake me earlier?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.” Wirt rubbed his neck as he spoke. “I just played with Greg and did some homework while you were napping.”

“Well, thanks for at least caring about my sleep patterns or something,” Beatrice giggled, and Wirt smiled back.

“Anyways, the cookies just finished baking. Did you want any?”

Beatrice sniffed the air. The sweet scent of cinnamon tickled her nose and made her mouth water.

“Sure, I’ll take one or two,” she flashed an expression of delight and stood up to stretch her arms. Her legs and back slightly cramped from her slouching in that chair for almost an hour. She spotted two plates of freshly-baked cookies on the table. How did she not notice them before? Must have been why the smell was so strong and close. She grabbed a cookie and bit into it. Sugary, soft, and warm.

“Holy crap, these are delicious!” Beatrice exclaimed between bites.

“You like them?” Wirt asked.

“Are you kidding? I fucking love them! I’d give these things an A!”

“That’s great.” Wirt took a cookie for himself. “Greg loves them, too, so that’s a good thing.”

“I mean, only people who have no taste would hate this stuff,” Beatrice chewed nosily.

“Thanks again for baking with me. I had a lot of fun,” Wirt grinned and bit into his cookie.

“Yeah, me too...” The tender warmth in her face flared up again at the sight of his smile. That damn smile of his, silently weaving its way deeper into her heart. She swallowed her food, and the words suddenly poured out of her mouth like a broken dam.

“Can we do this again some time?”

Beatrice immediately slapped her cupped hand over her lips in total shock, and Wirt coughed loudly as he nearly gagged on his cookie. Once his fit of coughing ceased, he gazed with wide, dumbfounded eyes.

“W-what did you say?”

_SHITFUCKDAMMITWHATTHEHELLDIDYOUJUSTSAYBEATRICEYOUFUCKINGIDIOT…_

“Uhh…” Beatrice lowered her hand. Sweat dripped down her forehead, and her stomach churned anxiously (she nearly felt like vomiting, bleh). “I-I want to bake again...with you. Maybe next weekend or something, if you’re available…” She clenched her teeth behind closed lips.

“A-are you asking me out?” Wirt stuttered. Beatrice’s cheeks reddened, and her heart pounded furiously, almost as if it was about to burst like dynamite.

“...yeah,” she sighed, tensely combing her fingers through her sunset-red curls.

“Why?”

“Because…”

_I just want to hang out with you. As a friend--_

“Because I like you. I mean, like like you.”

_Oh fuck, what did you just--_

“Y-you do?”

“...sure.”

“Umm, Beatrice, I…” Wirt looked down at the wooden floor. “I like you, too--”

“I know you do,” Beatrice interrupted. Wirt’s head shot back up in surprise.

“You do? How did you find out?”

“I kind of suspected for a while now. Also, I found out from Greg.”

“Oh. Heh, I should have known Greg would blab about this at some point. Kid’s a total chatter mouth.”

“Well to be honest, the signs were kind of obvious,” Beatrice chuckled softly.

“Uhh...yeah,” Wirt laughed back lightly.

The silence dragged like a child’s blanket trailing along the floor.

_Give it up, Beatrice. You already said it, so you might as well just stop fighting with yourself…_

“So…is it a date, then?”

“Date?”

“Yeah, a date. I mean, we both like each other, so it’s not just a simple friendly hangout anymore,” Beatrice muttered, slightly shrugging her shoulders.

“O-oh. Umm…” Wirt gulped. “Y-yeah. I guess it’s a date.”

“Great,” Beatrice softly smiled. Suddenly, she leaned forward. Next thing she knew, her lips grazed against Wirt’s cheek in a split second kiss. She pulled away and stared at the boy’s scarlet cheeks and doll-wide eyes.

“Umm…I-I should probably head back to my place. Gotta cook dinner and what not,” Beatrice stammered.

“Err...yeah. I gotta cook, too.”

“Could I...maybe take some cookies back home? They’re really delicious.”

* * *

 

“You’re leaving already, Beatrice?!” Greg whined from the couch as he chewed on his own cookie. The television screamed of enthusiastic fans cheering at a basketball game.

“Beatrice has been here long enough today, Greg. She’s gotta rest and eat,” Wirt replied as he unlocked the door. “And don’t drop crumbs on the couch! I don’t want to have to deal with ants this early in the school year.”

“Aww, man! When will I get to see her again? I didn’t get to have any fun with her!” Greg pouted. Beatrice giggled at the boy’s childish energy and outgoingness. He was so adorable. Not like Wirt, who was...well...just cute.

“It’s okay, Greg. Next time you visit, I’ll come over and play with you,” Beatrice grinned.

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart,” she vowed, even forming the cross motion on her chest.

“Yay! I can’t wait!” Greg’s face gleamed with excitement. Wirt opened the door, and Beatrice stepped outside. She turned around.

“So, Saturday at 2:00?” she asked.

“Yeah, definitely,” Wirt answered softly, his mouth curling up into a tiny smile.

“Cool. I’ll see you then.” Before she could leave, though…

_Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,_

_The muttering retreats_

_Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels_

_And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:_

_Streets that follow like a tedious argument_

_Of insidious intent_

_To lead you to an overwhelming question…_

Beatrice stopped in her tracks and slowly twisted her head so that she peered at Wirt from the corner of her eyes. She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Err...sorry. T.S. Eliot. Just a way to express…” Wirt scratched his head nervously. “...how I’m looking forward to next weekend.”

“Pfft, will you ever stop being nerdy?” Beatrice jokingly snorted.

“Guess not,” Wirt smirked, crossing his arms.

“Whatever,” Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Bye, Wirt.”

“Bye, Beatrice.”

The door clicked shut.

* * *

 

Beatrice closed the door behind her and leaned against it. Staring at her ceiling, she sighed and hugged herself tightly. Her lips curled up into a dreamy smile, as if she were in a romantic fairytale. That bubbling sensation from within...she no longer restrained or fought it. She accepted it wholeheartedly and released it. And with that came serenity and euphoria.

She definitely couldn’t wait for Saturday.

* * *

 

As soon as he closed the door, Wirt let out a long sigh.

“Will you get to see Beatrice again?” Greg piped up.

“Huh? Oh, uhh…” Wirt turned around to face his curious brother. “Yeah. Actually, I will. Next weekend. She asked me out on a...date.”

“Whoa, really?! Are you two gonna go out together?!”

“...yeah,” Wirt laughed nervously.

“Good! I’m glad she’s gonna be your girlfriend! I like her!” Greg exclaimed, grinning widely.

“Me too, Greg,” Wirt smiled.

_Me too..._

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it! I hope you all enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think in the comments; I really would appreciate any feedback so that I can improve in the future. I will have some more fics published in the future as well, so stay tuned for those!
> 
> I will post updates of future fics on my tumblr (221bdisneystreet.tumblr.com), so please check it out!
> 
> Poetry credit: "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” by Walt Whitman and “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot; also original cheesy poetry by me because I need to channel my inner Wirt


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